Butterflies in His Abdomen
by schizophrenic-clown
Summary: When a past case sneaks into his dreams, Sherlock Holmes appears to develop an eating disorder. (Established Relationship, Eating Disorders)


Pink organs and cheap plastic bags haunt the lids of his eyes every time he lies down for bed. The soft downy plush of a dozen and one pillows aren't enough to build an immunity to nightmares. He fidgets and moans from the terrors creeping and stealing each freckle on his neck, each hair on his head. Despite the constant internal struggle, the man often lying beside him in the bed throws blankets over his figure; this does nothing to quell the demons fighting inside his quivering body deep in REM sleep.

When he wakes, his throat closes and hands scratch at the confinements of the sheets. He can't talk, can't see, can't even _think_. Everything is falling down into piles of rubble around him as he breaches the surface and kicks his feet toward the floor. He slips and acquires carpet burn on his heels and shins. The door frame shatters against his shoulder when he runs into it, wood raining on his naked flesh and splintering it open to allow blood to crawl down his bicep and collect in the crook of his elbow.

Something is _coming up_.

It burns and itches his esophagus, tickling the innards belonging to the hollows of his ears. He tries to cough it out, but he only takes on the appearance of an old feline with a respiratory problem. His spine curves, and he stands on his tiptoes, tongue out of his mouth and arms wrapped around his trembling torso.

"Hey, are you okay?"

It's sleepy, distant. The owner hasn't come out of the bedroom. They're expecting a reply before they get up to investigate, but when the only response is a continuous string of retching, there isn't much to confirm that they _shouldn't_ go check.

He hears their footsteps on the soft carpet of the bedroom—pausing to possibly dress—then the hard floor of the kitchen, and he's still coughing, coughing, coughing, and he only barely makes it to the bathroom before his knees give way. Sharp pain shoots up his thighs, and his fingers reach for the closest object to aid him in standing. His feet arch when he feels the cool chill of the tile against the balls of his feet. Whines and whimpers greet his voice box, along with another wave of wet hacking.

There's a knock on the door. The previous question is repeated, and it obtains the same retort as before: a worrisome fit. He can't talk, can't see, can't even _think_.

Something is _coming up._

It won't _come out_.

He leans over the toilet, forcing his body to stay down on the bowl when the porcelain pinches gooseflesh. His hands are the perfect shade against the contraption, complimenting each other with equal dyes of white.

The knocking persists.

Dried blood cakes off his forearm, and he stares as it becomes dust on the floor. It's just the tiniest hint of pink, and then he _remembers_, and oh _God._

Acid bubbles into the tube of his throat, getting caught. His shoulders shake.

_It has to come out._

He coughs, head throbbing and chest fracturing. Fingers shove against the chapped skin on his lips, parting them and pressing down on the pink muscle that claims his mouth as its own.

_Pink heart. Pink liver. Pink lungs._

_Pink intestines stretched out like a child's play thing._

_Contained by plastic._

_There was a face._

He strokes his uvula, and then it comes up, and everything is fine.

"Oh, Sherlock."

During his episode, an audience has grown—an audience wearing a tacky Christmas sweater and brown socks. Pushing the awful fashion sense aside, the man by the toilet regains the ability to straighten his spine. He flushes and watches the chartreuse contents swirl and paint a picture of utter disgust and depression.

"Oh, Sherlock," the other repeats, and the tone is so patronizing, demeaning, _disappointed_. "This again?" he asks, rubbing his eyes and frowning with a furrowed brow.

This time, Sherlock Holmes is unable to deduce the speech and actions of John Watson.

* * *

"How about some nuts, yeah?"

"No matter how many times you shake that damned can in my face, my taste buds won't suddenly grow a liking to them."

With a disgruntled expression, John stares at Sherlock and tosses the can of mixed nuts in the shopping cart. Sherlock moans and offers a widely exaggerated eye roll, which only causes the shorter man to grin and pull more containers into their cart. "We have to get you eating again, Sherlock," John tries to reason, as he picks a thing of dried strawberries off a shelf. "We'll start small—work our way up."

"Is that what those websites you've been reading say?" Sherlock mumbles, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and glaring at the contents John intends to buy.

"Uh, no. I'm using what I know as a doctor."

"Exactly. You're a doctor, not a nutritionist. Let's keep it that way." Sherlock watches John angrily toss the fruits into the cart before shoving him away to move down the aisle. Their cart's wheels squeak against the painfully white flooring of the grocer, but it doesn't stop John sliding next to the canned vegetables. Sherlock follows him with much reluctance, groaning and sighing every now and then. His feet thud along the flooring, piercing the atmosphere of the store with blatant desires of not wanting to be there.

After Sherlock's sixth or seventh groan passes between his lips, John swiftly turns around and faces the consulting detective with narrowed eyes and fists tightly clenched. "I'm trying to help you, and you're acting like a child."

"I don't like any of this stuff!" Sherlock exclaims, throwing his hands in the air and maneuvering toward the cart. He moves to seize at each of the items, but John quickly pushes the cart forward, skidding it away from Sherlock's touch. This earns him a scowl and a swoop of a coat to his knees. "This is counterproductive. If you're trying to get me to eat again—well, I _am_ eating; you're just delusional, maybe—purchasing foods that I have no fancy in isn't going to make my tummy rumble and hands grabby for it."

John is silent as he casually walks back to their shopping and continues shoveling in jars and boxes that's only purpose in the world are to upset Sherlock. No matter of whining can stop the doctor to drop what he's doing, so Sherlock quietly walks behind him, eyes down and sending complaints to the ground without moving a muscle.

When they make it back to the flat, Sherlock almost wishes to be back in the confinements of the chilly building; the constant dragging squeak from the buggy was a slap to the otherwise still state his life has seemed to take on the past few days.

How peculiar.

He sits on the Thinking Couch, eyes on John like a cat's on a mouse. His fingers tug at his bottom lip as he nervously bites his tongue. Although he did _absolutely nothing wrong_, the aching gnaw of guilt is in his stomach (along with a flurry of butterflies, but that's irrelevant). The slamming and stomps echoing from the kitchen into the rest of the flat fuels this emotion, and Sherlock slowly falls onto his side with a heavy groan and a strained "I'm sorry, John".

John—oh, _John_—clearly hears the other, but he takes pleasure in every moment Sherlock proves himself human. He asks him to _repeat_—"What was that? I couldn't hear"—and Sherlock, peeling off layers of skin from his lip and tufts of hair from his scalp, spills out puddles upon puddles of the English language that causes his head to hurt and vision to blur. When he can talk no more, he sees the faint outline of John's figure standing in front of him, and it looks like—no, _sounds_ like—he's laughing.

"Bloody hell. I've broken you, haven't I? Forced you to apologize, and you've gone and had a mental breakdown." His exaggerated laughs turn into light chuckles, and then those disappear into the quiet atmosphere of the flat. John clears his throat and shuffles his feet. "So, uh—"

"Did you buy any peanut butter?" Sherlock's voice comes out small, weak, and he hates himself for crumbling into nothing in front of John. He swings himself into an upright position before gliding into the kitchen where a couple shopping bags are left untouched with their purchases still inside. Sherlock decides to store them, but after trying to decipher John's reasoning behind each placement of their produce, he gives up and sits down at the Food and Experiments Table, fingers twisted into his hair.

"You okay?"

Sherlock mumbles something about peanut butter. A sigh hits the air, but it's brought out by a smile and a gentle shake of the head which quenches the guilt in Sherlock's abdomen (not the butterflies, though). He hears a cabinet and drawer open, although, he pays no mind. He stays fixated on the table's surface, noting how the wood is chipped on a corner, and the long scratch down the middle of the piece of furniture sticks out like a red hickey against a tanned sternum. Rose tints rise to his cheekbones, and John lightly taps his nose when he walks over to him. "Stop thinking whatever you're thinking." He sets a jar of peanut butter and spoon in front of the detective. "Thought you'd want the whole jar rather than a slab in a bowl."

"Right you are," Sherlock says, running a hand over his cheeks in a manner that could wipe the blush away from his person. He tears the lid off and picks up the spoon, immediately devouring bite after bite of the creamy substance.

"Made me feel like a tit in the store earlier," John reminds him. Sherlock chooses to cancel him out and instead tunes in a station of his mind playing a peaceful symphony. Lovely.

When he starts to hum in between bites, John takes this as his cue to leave.

* * *

"_Oh, Sherlock_" (don't).

"_Oh, Sherlock_" (be).

"_This again_" (disappointed)?

The strands of his black hair stick to the back of his neck, curling at the ends when beads of sweat slides and collects on the follicle. He's softly moaning, panting like a damn dog, and John is standing over him with a frown and the dreadful Christmas sweater and tasteless tube socks. His lips are quivering, and his hands are drawn into loose fists, and his brow's knitted together, and everything about his body language is _wrong._ Gathering up his strength to move his swollen tongue, Sherlock breathes into the toilet water, "I can tell you're upset."

"That's a great deduction right there, yeah."

"You don't need to be upset." His hands drop to the floor, and the cold material clings to his fingers.

"I'm pretty sure I have every bloody right to be upset, Sherlock."

"You don't—"

"I don't what? Understand?"

"_Yes_."

"No, Sherlock, don't—I understand everything. Right now. You've an eating disorder, and I don't—"

"You don't what?" A weak smile stretches his chapped lips and pimpled chin. He leans his head against the seat of the commode, eyes tightly shutting and watering. "Oh," he moans, lurching forward, arms wrapping around his torso as he retches into the putrid bowl. John curses and leaves the room, hand over his mouth and mumbling in a low tone to avoid Sherlock hearing.

After a brief period, Sherlock becomes erect once more and hooks his fingers into his bottom jaw. "Nothing will come out."

"Probably because you already fucking threw it up!" John reappears back into the bathroom, and he approaches Sherlock. A sharp sting attacks Sherlock's hands as John hits them away from his mouth. "Stop that. Stop this. Just. Stop, Sherlock. I mean it."

"_It won't come out_."

"Dear God, you're actually whining," John says quietly. He shakes his head, rubbing his face. "Sherlock." He drops down to become eye level with the detective. Reaching over, he flushes the toilet and grabs hold of the other's shoulders. "Look, you've got to—" He pauses and seems to think over his words, choosing them carefully in an attempt to—what (console)?

Sherlock watches the pattern of the lines in his forehead turn from anger to concern. "I've got to stop this," he finishes with a lowered head.

"To put it bluntly, yes. You do."

And Sherlock, for once, chooses to remain civil and quiet while John becomes his doctor.

* * *

"But I'm not tired." Sherlock escapes from the tight wrappings John put him in (for the fifth time). "No matter how many times you cocoon me, my mind won't suddenly be tricked into falling asleep."

John shoots the taller man a glare, his lips pressed together into a thin line. "Sherlock, you have to sleep—"

"And I have to eat! Does it matter? Not at the moment, no. I'm fine. I'm not lying in the middle of the sitting room unconscious, so I think I have a right to… savor my health." He blinks. "At the moment."

"At the moment."

"Yes, John." He crosses his arms over his chest. "At the moment."

John is defeated. He raises his arms above his head, stretching the muscles in his lower back. "Okay, fine." Waving a hand and yawning, he leaves Sherlock in the bedroom.

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock turns his head and watches John. "Where are you going?" When he's only met with silence, he grunts and decides to go to bed after all.

As soon as the blankets fall onto his trembling figure, they are ripped off like a child's clumsy fingers with a butterfly (the ones in his stomach remain unharmed). "Get up," he hears John say with a smile in his tone. "You were just telling me"—he sits down on the bed beside Sherlock, bouncing on the mattress a bit to rouse the lanky man—"that you weren't tired, and look at you—tired?" He laughs. "Lying's bad, Sherlock."

"Give me back the blankets."

"I don't have them."

"Piss off, John. You should know that someone with my 'disorder' needs all the extra heat they can get." A sigh. He is covered by the heavy blanket once more. "Thank you." The wood of his headboard groans. Sherlock cracks open an eye and stares at John, who has propped up a few pillows to support his lower back as he stretches out beside the detective. A jar of peanut butter and a spoon are in his hands. Sherlock narrows his eyes and says, "Having a little snack, are you?"

John doesn't reply until he has the lid off and an ample amount on the spoon. "You are."

"What the hell are you—?" Sherlock is almost gagged with the metallic taste of the kitchen utensil smashing against the underside of his tongue. It scrapes against his teeth, causing a piercing ache to shoot into his ears. "Fuck," he mumbles with peanut butter in his mouth. He chews and swallows and stares at John. "What were you th—?"

John pushes another spoonful in the vicinity of his mouth, scraping the end of the spoon, once again, against his teeth. "You need to eat."

"But I am!"

"Not to my expectations." After Sherlock swallows the portion he is dealt, John stuffs one more in, for good measure, before engaging in the act himself. "I know you have odd eating patterns. A small snack now and then won't hurt you in getting back to how you were before…" He drifts off, frowning and exchanging a glance with Sherlock. "Before what exactly?"

The mattress shifts as the black-haired maneuvers into a sitting position. He only offers a smile as he grabs at the jar of peanut butter and spoon and becomes adult enough to feed himself. "I never ate normal," he says with a wrinkled nose as if the word "normal" itself carried a plague.

John's brow knits together, and his lips part. He looks almost frustrated (and cute) at processing information he already knows. "No, I mean—_no_, you know what I mean." Their eyes meet for the briefest second before Sherlock fishes out more peanut butter. "What happened?" John asks with the softest, gentlest voice he can muster at the moment (he probably wants to strangle him).

So, Sherlock sighs and hands the utensil and jar back to John. He folds his hands in his lap and stares at the wallpaper, the window just to the right of the center of his eye. Snow coats the glass, and the streetlights outside turn the atmosphere of the pane orange, almost rose in hue. It sickens him to no end with the slight notion, the slight shift of the color attaching itself to the window to mock the tint that twists a knife in his stomach every time he sees it. He can barely withstand thinking the word, much less _saying_ it, but the muscles in his chin and around his lips form the pigment that always does justice at forcing his stomach acid to travel up his esophagus.

"_Pink_."

And John, being a (really bad) friend does a pleasant job at covering up his laughter with a cough. He manages to stuff his mouth with peanut butter to further dispel any future chuckles. "Is that it?" he asks, spittle clinging to his bottom lip.

"Obviously not."

"Of course." John nods and continues shoveling spoonfuls of peanut butter inside. "Well, go on then. Wait. Is this about the pink phone case?"

"No, don't be daft."

"Right."

"I'd advise you to keep working on gluing your mouth shut."

John obliges, and Sherlock leans his head against the headboard, eyes slowly closing and breath slowly exhaling. "Christmas," he starts, "last year. Do you remember?"

"Oh, I can talk now?"

"Do you remember?" Sherlock repeats, perfectly still apart from his mouth moving to talk. He can feel John's stare heat the hairs on his forearms as the spoon is set against the brim of the jar.

"Yeah, I do," John says. "There were murders caused by this guy that had some sort of food kink." At this, Sherlock hears the confusion spinning about the cogs in John's mind. "But. Wait. Are you saying that that case was the reason behind… whatever this is?"

"No." The word escapes Sherlock's mouth like cigarette smoke on a cool night.

"No?"

"No." His eyes pop open, and he revolves his head upon his shoulders to focus on the aging doctor's face. "There's more."

John sighs. "Of course." His fingers tap a pattern against the jar, and Sherlock finds himself reaching out to take a hold on the hem of John's jumper, mimicking the rhythm as he had seen it. "Shall I continue, or will you?"

"What else do you remember?" Sherlock mumbles, his fingertips catching on the wool.

The headboard knocks on the wall when John sets his head on top of it. His cheeks fill with inhaled air before he slowly expels it. "Well." He screws his eyes shut. "The bodies were emaciated, free of their organs—"

"And where were the organs?"

John is a bit perplexed at Sherlock's question (he already knows the answer), but he still replies. "They were, uh, in plastic bags." Sherlock nods and scoots across the covers to rest his head against John's upper arm, shutting his eyes and squeezing the sweater's fabric between his fingers. He means this as a gesture to go on, and John silently picks up on this and continues. "The bodies also had… Their throats were full of food, because they were crammed full of… well, food. And, I think, plastic bags were pulled over the victim's faces." John's body gives a violent shiver in Sherlock's delicate hold. "It was all grotesque and—" He pauses at this, and the mattress shifts again as John rotates to stare at the other. "You said in the bathroom that something wouldn't come out." His fingers trail a small beat to Sherlock's throat. "You're _scared_," he says quietly.

As Sherlock opens his eyes, their gazes lock. John takes Sherlock's chin in his fingers and tilts it up, better to look at the expression clouding his face. One glance is enough to confirm that his accusation is correct, but a prolonged study tells him so much more, and a frown spreads across John's thin lips. Before he can say a word, Sherlock mutters, "I'm fine," but they both know it's a lie.

"So," John says, moving around to tilt his torso toward Sherlock's figure. "You're scared that the murderer—who's locked up, mind you—will strike again and take you and shove food down your throat and cut you open and stuff your head and organs in a plastic bag."

Sherlock stares.

John stares back. "You're insane."

Sherlock frowns.

And John frowns back. "No offense."

"No offense taken."

"Good." John readjusts his fingers' wrap on Sherlock's chin as his other hand grabs at the jar of peanut butter again. "Will you be okay?" Their foreheads press together. "I know how… how nightmares can frighten people."

"I'll be okay." Sherlock's voice comes out soft, fragile like a porcelain cat sculpture, and it takes both of them by surprise. John reiterates, and Sherlock tells him the same reply. They lock eyes, and with a swipe of John's thumb against his bottom lip in some sort of an intimate gesture, comes a _pop_, and Sherlock leaps up and off the bed. "How dare you!" he curses, his own hand covering his chin. Pulling his fingers away, Sherlock sees thin strips of blood and pus on his flesh. He shakes the substances away while John laughs from the bed.

"I'm sorry. It was like the biggest thing ever, and I couldn't help myself."

"Think this is funny, do you?"

John wipes an eye and holds his side with a free hand, as the other's holding tight on the peanut butter jar and spoon. "Of course it is!" he exclaims. "Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective that doesn't know how to clean his face properly after vomiting."

Sherlock rubs his sore chin and joins John on the bed. "Think that will catch on?" He crawls over and sits atop the doctor as he wipes the remaining excess on the sleeve of his jumper.

"Hey!" John shoves him away, and Sherlock lands on his back and laughs. "Harry gave me this!"

"Oh, come off it. You don't even like it. The awful coloring is such an eyesore, and it doesn't even match with any other article of clothing you own."

Sighing, John nods. "Yeah, you're right." He looks down and holds out the jar and spoon. "Here. Eat a few more bites."

Despite his narrowed eyes and scowl etched on his ethereal face, Sherlock is handed the peanut butter. "I don't want this."

"Come on, Sherlock."

"It tasted better when you fed it to me."

So, John smiles and takes the objects back. He adds a sufficient amount on the instrument and begins to feed Sherlock the rest of the protein. In a small voice, he glances at Sherlock and asks, "Is this going to happen every Christmas?"

As he chews and swallows what's in his mouth, Sherlock settles against the bed covers and smirks, a slight smile unfolding across his face. "It could be my psychosomatic limp."

John, desperately trying to force a stern expression to stay, ends up chuckling and dropping the spoon and jar from his hands. "Fuck you, Sherlock."

"Okay."

Sherlock almost can't breathe; the air around them turns into carbon monoxide, and he has appeared to become John's oxygen tank by the way his arms wrap around his body, pulling him to the comfort of the blankets, his mouth a firm obstacle against his own.

With one quick wave of a pair of legs, the comforter and sheets on the mattress uplift and tangle on their bodies, making it all the more difficult to remove clothing.

And with a gentle hand on his lower back and the other holding his leg to rest on a shoulder, the butterflies in Sherlock's stomach flutter away to join his melting nightmares.


End file.
